Breakwall
by M and M Works
Summary: A companion piece to "Somewhere Over". Pacey's POV after the Promicide epi.


_A/N: This is a missing scene from __**Promicide**__. It is the companion piece to __**Somewhere Over**__._

***~*****Breakwall*****~*****  
****by M&M Works**

_There are things that we don't want to happen but have to accept, things we don't want to know but have to learn, and people we can't live without but have to let go. _

_-- Author Unknown_

Walking toward the beach house after leaving the Leery's, I make my way there by muscle memory alone, neither conscious nor interested in the passing scenery. I had bolted from that joke of a limo before it was barely in park, unable to breathe one moment longer in that hulking bucket of rust. I didn't bother with the pleasantries of bidding goodnight to my companions; I'm pretty sure most of them weren't speaking to me anyway.

To be honest, I don't really give a flying fuck right now.

Rage and self-righteousness reign side by side with shame and guilt, pounding at and eroding my subconscious like storms waves relentlessly crashing against cliffs. A flood of images float through me begging for notice but I let them go without examination, only searching for a place that is comfortably numb.

As I walk, I gradually strip off the accouterments of this monkey suit, eager to finally quit trying to be something I'm not. Pockets full of pieces by the time I slide open the patio doors to the beach house; I kick those shiny, black shoes into a corner as soon as I'm inside.

Even without a tie around my neck, I feel like I'm choking.

It hurts to breathe.

My ears prick up when I hear Gretchen behind her bedroom door, recognizing her familiar motions of preparing for bed. I pray to a God that I don't believe in that she stays there and doesn't feel the need to deconstruct tonight with some sort of misguided sisterly advice.

Because she'd be wasting her time.

Pacey's not home right now.

He hasn't been for a while.

It's only when I'm wearing just my boxers that my lungs slowly begin to fill with air. My eyes adjust to the darkness of the empty room and I search for the remote. The aptly-named boob tube or the bottle?? Considering my recent outing with Drue on Ditch Day, and the chance Doug might still follow through with his threat of a breathalyzer test, I opt for the choice less likely to cause a hangover yet produce much the same desired effect.

Oblivion. Sweet and utter oblivion.

Only it seems like my karma is catching up on me and it won't let me have the stupor which I seek.

For when I bend to sit on the couch, that flood beating at my subconscious suddenly wins its battle against the breakwall of defense I've erected to keep it at bay. A barrage of memories and impressions, both sharp and vague, violently crash through and steal my breath.

_Curled at the end of the couch, book balanced on her knees, a look of concentration that made me weak with want when directed my way… sarcasm and wit and sweetness filling the space between us until we tumbled together entwined, tickling… above me on that couch, fierce and hungry kisses… waking up to a birthday candlelit cupcake… sharing pizza … spaces carefully kept and measured… one cushion, then two… her demeanor guarded and defensive… walls being built brick by lie by secret…_

I stop before my ass hits the cushion afraid that if I touch it I'll drown on that couch.

It's starting to hurt to breathe again.

I pull on a pair of shorts and a shirt I find crumpled across the back of a chair at the small table between the kitchen and the living room and find my flip-flops flung beneath.

_A pencil, well-chewed… tip of a pink tongue peeking out as it scratches out assignments… scrawling across the page… racing toward a goal… shaking off the dust of Capeside… bright, new future ahead… pocket full of Dawson's money… my own head bowed over last year's texts, struggling to catch up, keep her in my sight… harbinger of doom in the form of a rejection letter, hidden… so many secrets… too many…_

Okay then. Since beer's out, perhaps a coke for the drowning man? Sounds harmless enough.

_Refrigerator door open… ponytail swinging… pancakes sizzling… humming, hips twitching in time… her warmth in my arms… wearing my clothes… laughing, eyes bright… breakfast interrupted… ubiquitous Dawson… retreating, hiding girlfriend… eyes avoiding mine… guilty looks… vicious circle…_

Okay maybe not. Fuck it. I wasn't thirsty anyway. What a drowning man needs isn't more liquids, its air.

Filling my lungs as I flee to the porch, intent on seeking safe and neutral territory, instead I find the lonely, white wicker lounge. My eyes close in a pathetic attempt to steel myself against another onslaught of images.

_Strong, late summer breezes blown in from the water, fanning hot, open-mouthed kisses and fists full of silken hair… bodies strained against each other… yearning… excited, frustrated… wanting… gasping… wrenching to a stop… icy, late winter wind biting at bundled brown coats… silent walks along the beach, halting admissions… half-confessions… hair shielding eyes… bodies no longer touching, hands in pockets… disbelief… distance… dread… the other shoe dropped…_

Gasping from the acute pain in my chest, my eyes spring open and I rapidly blink. Dragging a hand through my hair, I catch sight of my reflection in the sliding glass door; yet I see nothing that indicates the raging storm inside.

I can't bear to look for long and pull my eyes away, for I still can't stand to look in any form of mirror - with more reason now than ever.

_God… the things I said, in front of everyone… my promise for a perfect night broken… your stoic face… your silent tears… we didn't even get to dance… we weren't supposed to end like that… were we?_

I've lost all sense of connection.

A desperate longing spirals through me - for a mountain to climb, a warrior to conquer, a boat to sail to safety on the turbulent seas, a compass to guide this lost sailor.

A girl to hold tight and never let go… yet… knows he must. For her sake.

Absent those longings fulfilled, I stumble from the house and much like water seeks water, eventually find myself on a deserted dock. Dropping like lead weight to sit on the wooden planks at the dock's end, I'm lulled by the constant, soothing motion of the inky ripples in the moonlit water and the litany of my thoughts.

"_…two different people, two different paths."_

No more now, no less.

In the chapel of the endless sea, crowned by the limitless heavens, the storm inside me at last subsides. In its place a vast, empty ache lodges firmly behind the breakwall where my heart used to be.

It still hurts to breathe.

I fear it will for a very long time. ****

THE END


End file.
